Oleander Girl (35 page)

Mrs. Bose slumps down farther. Yet, it’s almost a relief, as when a boil that has been swelling with pus for days finally bursts.

“Madam, shall I cancel the lunch?”

“I can’t do that.” She has been wooing Utsab, a young abstract painter who, she predicts, is going to be one of the next greats. He’s skittish, though. He hasn’t agreed to let her hold an exhibition of his works yet. And touchy. The kind of man likely to take a broken lunch appointment as a serious insult.

“I’ll do the lunch. And I’ll call Subroto. But I can’t deal with Bhattacharya right now. Oh, Shikha, would you happen to have a nail file?”

“Yes, madam. Oh, dear, your beautiful nail, just look at it! Part of it needs to be clipped first. I’ll take care of it for you while you make those calls.”

Mrs. Bose gratefully surrenders her hand to Shikha. She calls the foreman and winces at the cacophony that immediately assails her over the line. But Subroto is less distraught than she feared. A robust demonstration is going on outside the gates, but overall things are under control. The security guards are on hand. Though they’ve been told not to engage with the demonstrators except in a dire emergency, Subroto has good hope that their presence will prevent vandalism. A few young men are more belligerent than the foreman would like, but they’ll calm down after a few days of shouting and placard waving and going home to wives who are annoyed by the salary loss. Most important, the union has presented a new list of demands, which Subroto will hand-carry to the gallery as soon as possible.

She calls Delhi next, cajoling and sweet-talking until she gets the buyer from Khazana to give her two extra weeks. By now it’s time for lunch. She rises from the table with the first smile she’s been able to
muster since morning. Shikha has made reservations at a Thai restaurant nearby, a quiet, elegant place, and Mrs. Bose feels she might actually manage to eat something.

Lunch progresses excellently. Utsab has just completed a painting he is pleased with, and that puts him in an expansive mood. He doesn’t mention the strike—perhaps, immersed in the world of the imagination, he doesn’t pay attention to such plebeian things. Before they part, he agrees to give Mrs. Bose ten paintings to show at the gallery next month. She can’t wait to tell Shikha!

Ebullient, she hasn’t been paying attention to her surroundings. She doesn’t see the two men until after she steps out at the end of the block, dismisses Asif, and begins walking toward the gallery. Nondescript in cotton pants and cheap sandals, they suddenly flank her, one on either side, uncomfortably close, though they don’t touch her or prevent her from walking. She doesn’t recognize them, but she can feel the threat that emanates from them like heat from a machine that’s been left running too long.

They speak to each other in soft voices, as though continuing a conversation.

“See how the rich are, bhai? The memsaab just went and ate a hearty meal in that expensive restaurant. Does she care that her employees have been forced to go on strike, giving up their meager salary? That their families will get only rice and water, if that much, at the end of the day? Does she care that their children will cry for milk?”

“Of course not. Why should she? Even if our brothers go on strike until they starve, she’ll have enough money. For years the Boses have sucked us dry so their son can drive a foreign car and drink at fancy bars, so their daughter can go to a high-class Christian school and wear silk dresses and makeup.”

Mrs. Bose knows she should remain silent and keep walking. They won’t hurt her, not today. They only want to scare her. But the accusations are so unfair that her pride won’t let them go unchallenged.

“We’ve always been generous to our workers,” she says through stiff lips. “Our men are paid premium wages. They get vacation and sick leave and new clothes on Durga Puja—”

“And why only on Durga Puja day?” One of the men blocks her way. “Why not on Eid? Why is the Bose family partial to its Hindu workers? Why do they hobnob with Bibhuti Bhattacharya and his Hindutva party? Why have the Muslims been targeted after the trouble at the warehouse? Why has Alauddin-uncle been fired while no Hindus have been let go?”

“Let me pass. I’ll discuss these matters with the union, not with you.”

“The union,” says the other man, and spits on the pavement, purposely close to her foot. Mrs. Bose can’t take her eyes from the glob of spit. It pulls her back to a time when she was young and unsure, with a heart anyone could reach in and wound.
A shopkeeper’s scheming daughter,
her father-in-law had called her. She begins to shake.

“The union limps like a toothless old tiger,” the man snarls. “We want quicker answers. We want payment for the mental anguish our brothers suffered. And we’ll get them. Oh, yes, one way or another, we’ll—”

She hears the rapid thud of footsteps behind her. Her heart flings itself against her ribs.

“Brothers, brothers!” It’s Asif, breathless from running. “What are you doing? Let Memsaab be. How can you fall so low, bullying a woman who is by herself?”

“Stay out of this,” one of the men growls. “She’ll take our message to the right place once she knows we mean business. If her family is in danger, she’ll make her husband see things our way.”

“And why are you on their side, Asif Ali?” the other asks. “Is it because they let you sit in a fancy air-conditioned car while we carry backbreaking loads and pound nails into crates? Don’t you realize they think of you the same way as they do us—cockroaches to be crushed under their chappal when the time is right? Don’t you care that they fired Alauddin-uncle, who gave them the best years of his life, without a second thought, just because he was trying to protect his own flesh and blood? You’re more of an enemy to us workingmen than the rich babus—”

A part of Mrs. Bose’s mind, which has detached itself from her shaking body, wonders how Asif will respond to this accusation. But she will never know because at that moment the guard from the jewelry store next door to the gallery hurries up, his baton out and ready.

“Madam, is there a problem? Are these goondas giving you trouble?”

But the two men have melted away.

“Are you okay, Memsaab?” Asif asks.

She nods, incapable of speech.

Shikha rushes up, too, wringing her hands. Fortunately, she had stepped out to check if Mrs. Bose had returned, seen what was going on, and run to the jewelry store for help. Now she leads Mrs. Bose to her office.

“Oh, madam, how absolutely horrible! Sit here and drink this water. Why, you’re shivering. That must have been terrifying! I was shaking, myself, and I was only seeing it from a distance. Here’s a towelette to wipe your face. To approach you like this in broad daylight, right on Park Street! Is there no limit to the audacity of these criminals?”

Mrs. Bose can’t hold back her tears. Other things she can handle, but that spit—it has undone her. “They’re following us around,” she says through sobs. “They knew where I’d gone to eat. And they mentioned Rajat being at a bar—that’s where he was last night. They know where Pia goes to school. Who knows when they’ll show up next, or whom they’ll target! Oh, Shikha, how can we live like this?”

“It’s not right, madam.” Shikha pats Mrs. Bose’s back timidly, in tears herself. “I know you’ve been a good employer to the men in the warehouse.”

“There’s no justice to their thinking. Remember the Deorah family four or five years ago? It was in all the papers. Their youngest son was kidnapped, right here in Kolkata, their car hijacked on his way back from tennis class. The kidnappers asked for a ransom of one crore rupees. The family gave it, but the boy was never returned. The police weren’t able to catch the kidnappers, but they suspected that the chauffeur had been part of—” A horrifying thought strikes Mrs. Bose in midsentence. “What if those men today are part of a group that’s planning something like that?”

“Madam, madam, calm down please, you’ll make yourself ill.”

“That Asif—” Mrs. Bose gasps. “He tried to stop them, it’s true, but why did it take him so long to reach me?”

“I don’t know, madam. It does seem strange.”

“Is he with them, but pretending not to be, so I’ll trust him? I heard them—they called him by his name. Oh, God, Shikha, what if their next plan is to kidnap Pia? I can’t let her go in the car with Asif by herself anymore!”

“Your maidservant could go with her—”

“Pushpa? She would be useless. She and Asif, I’ve seen them together. She’ll do whatever he says. Oh, why isn’t Mr. Bose here to support me when I need him the most!”

“Madam, please don’t be so upset. I can’t stand to see you like this!” Shikha’s face is splotched with distress. “I’m here. I’ll support you.” She pauses, chewing on her lip, thinking furiously. “What if I come to the flat each morning and ride to the school with Miss Pia? The school’s not so far from here—I can walk to the gallery after that. In the afternoon, I’ll meet Miss Pia at school and do the same thing. I’ll be vigilant every minute. I’ll keep my mobile in my hand, and if I need to, I’ll call the police. I promise you, madam, as long as I’m with her, you don’t need to worry.”

“Would you do that for me?” Mrs. Bose sits up, infused with grateful energy. “That would make me feel so much safer.” How loyal the girl is, she thinks. How dependable. And a quick thinker, too. As soon as things settle down, she’ll give Shikha the biggest bonus ever.

F
or two days I’ve been lying on my bed in Motel 6, staring at the listless beige curtains pulled shut over the window. Two precious days lost. At another time, I would have fretted; now I don’t care. In the shower, I scrubbed myself until my skin was raw. The soap smelled like resignation. Messages from Rajat have piled up on my cell phone, but my tongue is incapable of performing the gymnastics of explanation. I can’t let go of what happened with Mariner. His eyes changed, in his office, when I said my mother’s name. You can’t mistake recognition. He knew her name even though he later claimed he had never met her. What could that mean?

I’ve asked Vic to use the rest of my money to change my ticket. I want to go home, to bury my face in Grandmother’s chest, in the smell of her starched cotton sari. But Vic is being difficult. He brings me trays of food: rice and dal and Gujarati karhi spiced with ginger, cooked by Desai’s cousin. He tells me I can’t give up—that would mean Mariner has won. He tries to get me to go with him to karaoke night at Mystic City, his friend Sid’s nightclub. He reminds me that Rob Davis the writer has confirmed our appointment for tomorrow morning. He’ll wake me early. It’s a long drive to the mountains. When I shake my head, he acts as if he didn’t notice.

Something Mariner said when I was in the apartment has been bothering me. If only I could remember what it was. I’ve replayed the scene in my
head as many times as I could bear, but the details shied away from me.

Now we’re in Vic’s car, winding through pine and eucalyptus on our way to see Rob Davis the writer because Vic has insisted that I must. I wear jeans and a full-sleeved shirt buttoned to my neck. No more Prada for me. Vic has bought me coffee; I sip its welcome bitterness in silence. Through my open window the smell of the land seeps into me, mossy and damp and clean. It reminds me of the hills where Grandfather had sent me—to keep me safe from men like Mariner, I see that now. I never appreciated them, grumbling when the teachers took us on steep weekend walks among the deodar trees to see the ice sparkle of the Kanchenjunga peak. Sorry, Grandfather. Then I realize that it’s the first time I’ve remembered him without anger since I learned what he’d done to my mother—and to me. Perhaps it is because of my terrifying experience with Mariner that I feel more sympathetic toward Grandfather’s desire to protect the women of his family.

The trees around us are tall, with thick, reddish trunks. Vic tells me they are redwoods; in some parts of these hills they are thousands of years old. If we have time, he’ll take me to see them. Everyone needs to see a thousand-year-old tree at least once. I say nothing, but I don’t think I’ll have the time. If Rob Davis the writer turns out to be my father—and these enchanted woods make me feel that such a thing is perhaps possible—I’ll spend the rest of my stay with him. If not, it’s time I went home.